He had it coming, Really
by JustDoodle
Summary: You know the feeling you get when you're trapped under four feet of rubble and you just got blown up by a missile from a dumb Norwegian giant robot? It kinda sucks. {It's a quick one-shot about what might have happened after Tom was blown up in 'The End'. Please give it a try it's short but with actual effort}


He couldn't breathe.

Tom couldn't fucking breathe.

Every attempt resulted in a thick coat of burning smoke that only amounted in making him cough even more, hence making him inhale again, hence more pain.

He could feel the pressure of metal layers and mounds of dirt above him and around him, suffocating him further, and cutting off any air flow.

He tried his luck, attempting to push the force off of his body, only to find just how heavy a four-feet thick layer of scrap and dirt could be.

Well shit.

Panic overtook him as he thrashed frantically, only managing to strain his sore muscles further.

Nothing was working.

Tom was stuck.

The only thing he discovered from his futile struggle was that his right arm, unlike the rest of his body, could move. It seemed to be inside of a sort of a cave-like pocket protected under a large piece of something that felt like a table-top.

After a short investigation of the crevice, he soon noticed an oddly smooth and boxy object among the fray of the wreck after he brushed its surface. The creases and size of it told Tom he had stumbled upon his harpoon gun, and a quick feel-though around it told him what he needed to know.

It was loaded.

With a single harpoon.

He felt around and found the handle located at the back of the weapon, and took extra care in not jostling the lever as he maneuvered the gun closer to his body.

To his relief, the only effect of the harpoon gun moving was the sound of a wooden board that formerly relied on the objects' support hitting the ground with a dull thud.

'Congrats, you moved something. Now what.'

Bruises were starting to form all over Tom's' body from the impact of the missile. He could also feel something very sharp being pushed up against his left upper-arm, presumably another piece of scrap metal, making him slightly grateful he hadn't been able to move it during his flounder experience.

Luckily for Tom, it hadn't yet broken through his skin, but he could tell by the pressure and sharp point that any movement made would trigger a deep cut.

Outside he could hear muffled noises, and he picked out what sounded like Matt. He was yelling something, but Tom couldn't bring himself to put forth enough effort to decipher it.

Actually, it was hard to focus on _anything_.

Why was he trying to get out anyway?

What was there even to come back to?

His house and everything in it was blown up by someone he had been warning his 'friends' about all day. Tom had seen it all coming, and they didn't listen. It wasn't his fault, and it was right of Tom to leave them.

Leave his friends.

With _Tord—_

They deserved it.

And besides, Tom was getting tired.

 _Really_ tired.

Everything was fuzzy, and the pointy thing jabbing Tom's arm seemed to fade away.

The heat and feeling of being stuck was slowly disappearing, and so was the layer of rawness in his throat.

Now that he thought of it, when was the last time Tom had taken a breathe—

No, that didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

 _Just sleep_.

He could hear someone far away say. It was said normally, but felt like a song.

 _Just sleep and everything will be okay._

And finally.

'Okay.'

He closed his eyes.

'But I thought we were… I thought we were friends'

Wait.

This wasn't right.

Where was Edd and Matt?

He couldn't just leave them.

They were in trouble, right?

The pain and rubble and metal and pain and smoke and pain and heat all surfaced back, and Tom was met with a sudden irresistible urge to _breathe_.

Tom needed air.

Now.

A few seconds of pointless thrashing reminded him of his impossible predicament, and Tom suddenly felt the weight of hopelessness take hold of him.

'Friends? What do I need friends for when I've got this? I'm unstoppable!'

With a renewed sense of anger and perseverance, Tom's fingers once again tightened around his harpoon gun.

The harpoon gun.

 _The harpoon gun._

He grabbed it and, with as much strength as he could muster, pushed it up against the pile of rubble above him, creating something to prop up the weight.

Streams of dust debris fell left and right around him, but he could care less as he managed to inch his body up into an almost kneeling position.

Tom could feel the sharp metal scrap creak at the movement slightly, and with it the pointed tip dug into his arm.

He winced as he felt a small drop of wetness stream down his arm, but brought his attention back to the task at hand.

Once again, holding his gun with a death grip, he attempted forcing the wreckage off of him, once again to no avail.

He realized now that it would have been a good idea earlier to scream for help in hopes of someone coming to his aid, but now the sounds coming from above would surely drown out any attempt at noise. Not to mention yelling requires air.

Well.

Too late now.

He thought of using the harpoon gun to shoot a small hole through the rubble, but colored it pointless. Nothing good could come out of a tiny hole and, if anything, everything could collapse on him.

Then he'd really be dead.

If wasn't going to be already.

After one more strong push, Tom had to take in another tiny, painful breath of smoke, and he realized he was definitely running out of time.

Despite the fact that what had seemed like over half an hour for Tom had probably only been about 3 minutes of pure agony, in reality, lack of air was catching up to him and he knew whatever Matt and Edd were doing wouldn't hold Tord off forever.

And Tom was still stuck.

 _Sleep Tom._

And he was getting lightheaded.

 _It will all be better_.

He couldn't breathe

 _If you were to only._

His grip loosed.

 _Fall_.

He breathed in.

 _Asleep—_

"Goodbye, old friends!"

Tom heard it.

He heard it loud and clear, from above the ruins.

That, that wasn't a memory.

That just happened.

Tord was escaping.

And Tom.

Tom simply _refused_ to allow that.

He felt a fire ignite within him, and anger too deep and strong and alive and him took over his mind and heart and very soul and _fucking TORD WAS NOT GOING TO GET AWAY—_

BECAUSE TORD

Light.

WAS NOT

Air.

HIS FRIEND

He pulled the lever that he didn't know his hand was on and lurched backward with the force of it all and felt tears burn his eyes and blood gush down the open slit in his left arm that shook in unison with the rest of his body.

And.

He could breathe again.

Tom could breathe again.

Ha okay this is probably dumb because it's my first eddsworld fic but I actually like how it turned out. This was originally uploaded on archive but I edited it a little and decide to put it here! If you liked this short one shot then hey maybe leave a comment you know it wouldn't hurt— okay i'll stop uwu


End file.
